


Say Cheese!

by witsendlight



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: :), Angst, Blood and Gore, Bullying, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I lied, Moving In Together, New York City, Past Violence, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but barely any comfort, i don't think that's even coping, i told my friend i was writing fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28887153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witsendlight/pseuds/witsendlight
Summary: “Have I ever told you,” says George, “how nice your smile is?”Dream presses another button, and the light stops flashing, their promise set in stone."Say cheese, George."-They move in together. An apartment in New York City, the Upper West Side. After all, George reasons, anything must be better than Detroit, where Dream's childhood was. As they live with each other, George begins to figure out more about Dream's dark past and everything hidden beneath his smile.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), but platonically - Relationship
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	Say Cheese!

**Author's Note:**

> help i'm technologically challenged
> 
> also, this is the first fic i'm putting on ao3!  
> shoutout to Person B and Person Y for encouraging me to post something
> 
> :)

“Have I ever told you,” says George, “how nice your smile is?”

Dream whips around, almost knocking George in the face with the heavy mirror he’s holding.

The two were moving into their newly-bought apartment on the Upper West Side. They’d scoped it out months in advance, and all the arrangements had finally been finished. Dream’s new job had paid for the majority of the bills, which he repeatedly assured George he was fine with. The older had since started his job as an ER nurse, and he definitely intended to make it up to the other.

If George is being honest, having the new apartment feels like an illusion. Almost as if he had been stranded in a desert and was finally getting a glimpse of an oasis. Sunlight pouring through crystal-clear windows, sounds of barking dogs and city-typical traffic rising up from below, his amazing best friend standing in the doorway with a brilliant grin on his face.

“What?” Dream wheezes. “My smile?”

George shrugs, placing down the coffee table he’d lugged up the seven flights of stairs due to the left elevator’s perpetual faultiness. “Yeah,” he replies, “you look really happy right now.”

“I mean, we did just buy this apartment,” says Dream. “I have no reason _not_ to be happy, it’s not like someone died here and we’re going to be cursed forever—”

“Wow, a dead body,” George jokes. Dream actually glances towards the open closet door at that one. “But seriously, Dream, I’m glad you’re a lot happier here than you were back in, um….” He trails off as Dream’s smile falters. “Detroit.”

“Yeah,” sighs Dream, propping the mirror up against the wall. He straightens up again, and the smile is back, the immediate change almost giving George whiplash. “You know, I’m thankful for you, George, and if I had the choice to live with anyone in the world, I’d pick you every time.”

With a laugh, George opens the door, and they begin the tiring process of going down seven flights of stairs once more. Dream takes them three at a time, leaving George in the dust.

“Slowpoke!” Dream shouts, voice echoing off the walls of the stairwell.

By the time George gets to the bottom, Dream is already headed back up the stairs.

✴︎

It’s almost 10:30 PM on the analog clock. They finished moving all the furniture half an hour ago. Groaning, George flops down onto their newly-assembled sofa. Dream looks up from his phone and moves over so the older has room.

“My back hurts,” whines George. He dangles his head off the cushion and stares at Dream. Dream’s upside-down face stares back. “I think it’s broken. Permanently damaged.”

“Oh, really?” says Dream dryly.

George swats at him with a computer science magazine. “Shut up, Dream.”

The younger does exactly that, going back to his phone. Intrigued, George pulls himself back up onto the couch and scoots over to peek at the other’s screen. Dream’s fingers deftly move to switch the application. The display is now an ebook, but George is certain he caught the flash of gray images.

Interesting.

“You spend too much time on devices,” complains George. “I mean, yeah, software developer, but still, there’s nothing on your phone that could be as important as having a normal social interaction—”

He cuts off when he sees the look on Dream’s face. This amused little smirk he’s always worn whenever he knows something George doesn’t. He had an identical expression when he finally revealed to George that they would be able to pay for the apartment. George decides to drop the subject.

“What’s for dinner?” asks Dream.

“You’re the one who can cook, asshat,” George answers, setting the computer science magazine down on the coffee table. He wasn’t reading it, anyway.

Dream raises an eyebrow. “I never said I could cook, George. The only thing I said was that I was better than you, and that you’d somehow find a way to screw up enough that we’d get food poisoning from blueberries.”

“Well, it’s convenient that I work in an emergency room, then.”

“Mm-hm.” His roommate sticks his phone in his pocket, but the bright glow from the screen is soon replaced by his open laptop. He opens a window with a map of the area, pins on restaurants they’ve spotted. “Takeout tonight?”

George laughs. “Takeout. Definitely.”

They decide to order from a pizza place, and Dream volunteers to pick it up, saying he’d been inside for too long and needed fresh air. Whatever; it leaves George with more time to bask in the glory of their new apartment.

He sprawls out on the rug in the living room listening to the soft whirr of the fan—they hadn’t installed the AC yet, and despite their extensive preparations, they hadn’t even checked if it was allowed here. The ceiling is lit up by an unnecessary amount of lamps Dream insisted on putting all around the room, claiming it kept ghosts away.

_“They think you’re looking at them,” Dream joked. “They don’t like being looked at.”_

For a man who made his money through science and math, he sure was superstitious.

George’s phone buzzes. He’s reluctant to open it, but when he does, it’s three messages from Dream.

_The pizza has been retrieved_

_I’ll be back in about 3 minutes_

_Don’t set the apartment on fire LOL_

Deciding to take advantage of his three minutes before Dream’s return, George sits up and moves to the boxes piled on the wall. Dream said they should unpack them together so their stuff didn’t get mixed up, but George was pretty sure he knew which boxes were his.

The box opener slices through the tape smoothly, and George opens the first box, removing the stack of towels. As he places them in the closet, something clatters to the ground.

A voice recording device. An old one that you’d find in Walmart on a back shelf.

It’s not his, that’s for sure.

And Dream _had_ mentioned that he put a few personal belongings in the boxes.

Even with that knowledge, George slides the switch on the side, and the display flickers to life. He isn’t sure how it works, but he presses the play button. A tinny sound comes out of the small speaker.

_“Say cheese, Clay.” A woman’s voice, mature, patient, a tone used for talking to a child._

_“I—I don’t wanna,” protests a voice that George recognizes as Dream’s. Maybe from ten years ago. George didn’t know the younger then, but the voice is unmistakable._

_Static, as if the person holding the recording device shifted it around in their grasp._

_“You have to smile for the camera, Clay.” Her voice contains a tinge of annoyance._

_A shaky breath from the recorder’s holder. “But the other kids said my smile looked ugly.”_

_There’s a pause. “I assure you, it looks beautiful. Come on, stand here, it’s just a picture.”_

_“No.” George can imagine it, the pout on Dream’s face when he doesn’t get his way. He’s seen that frown when Dream was dealing with the plumbers tasked with fixing the pipes in the bathroom. When Dream’s software developing project, the one he’d spent countless nights on, didn’t get accepted. When Dream argued with George about letting him pay for the apartment._

_“Well, Clay, you don’t really have a choice. Just take the picture.”_

_“I—”_

The sound of a key turning in a lock startles George, and he hastily presses pause and pockets the small device. Dream’s smiling face and a box of pepperoni pizza fill the doorframe.

“You didn’t burn down the house, huh?”

“Oh, fuck you,” says George. His hand pushes the voice recorder further into his pocket so Dream doesn’t see it. “Don’t walk around the apartment in your shoes.”

“Fine.” Dream leaves his shoes by the welcome mat—why they had it, George was unsure; it wasn’t as if they’d have any visitors.

The box of pizza is set down on the kitchen counter, and George grabs the first slice. They take their seats. For a couple minutes, the only sound in the kitchen is ravenous eating.

George breaks the silence between them. “So, uh, do you want to unpack the boxes after dinner or in the morning?” he mumbles around a mouthful of cheesy goodness.

Dream finishes his bite of pizza before replying. “I mean, we can unpack the stuff we’ll need, like, sheets and stuff, and we can save the rest for tomorrow.”

George’s fingers tighten around the little device weighing down the pocket of his hoodie. He forces a smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

✴︎

Dream is fast asleep on the couch as George places the contents of the last box in the closet. George can’t blame him. After all, Dream had done twice the amount of work George did when they were lugging the pieces of furniture up the stairs. George’s back still hurts.

A particularly loud snore from the living room makes George snicker. He’s tempted to record Dream for blackmail later, but the younger would most certainly find a way to get back at him. The opportunity is too enticing not to take, though. He reaches into his pocket for his phone, but his hand hits a remote-sized shape that’s too bulky to be it.

The voice recorder.

Right.

This time around, George takes a moment to inspect it. There’s a headphone jack on the bottom, so he can definitely listen without Dream—Clay, the woman in the recording had called him—hearing. He plugs his earbuds in and presses play.

It starts off right where George left it.

_“—don’t wanna. Please. They’re going to hit me.”_

_“It’s not that big of a deal. Just”—there’s a bit of a scuffle—“take the goddamn photo. You’re wasting our t—”_

The recording ends.

A loading screen fills the tiny display. Three dots, blinking in succession, seeming to ripple like the waves of the ocean.

It loads. A second recording starts playing before George can process the first.

“The fuck?” he whispers.

_Static, so much static, movement and shouting._

_“Did you see that? Fucking ugly.” The sound of an impact, a dull thud that makes the device’s holder sniffle. “Can’t believe he tried to trick us.”_

_An awful scraping noise fills George’s earbuds, as if the microphone had been scratched across asphalt._

_“The hell is this?”_

_Clay’s voice again. “No, I—”_

_“Were you trying to record us? Fucking coward.” Another impact, a cry from Clay, the recording ends._

Another loading screen.

Another recording.

_A sickening crunch, the sound of a hammer against concrete. Goosebumps raise on George’s arms at Clay’s agonized scream._

_“Oh, that’s disgusting.”_

_“Did it knock all his teeth out?”_

_“Most of them.”_

_Laughter, obnoxiously loud laughter that makes George want to cry. Clay screams again, this time more desperate. It’s a cry for help that no one will hear in time._

_Another crunch, and the recording goes dead silent._

Yet another loading screen.

Yet another recording.

_The woman’s voice returns. “Let me see.”_

_“No.” Clay’s voice is garbled, as if speaking through layers of gauze._

_“How badly did you get hurt from that fall?” the woman asks._

_“Go away.”_

_“Clay, I want to help you.”_

_Clay spits, and there’s a quiet clatter. “You never help me.”_

“George?”

George spins around, and there Dream is, standing in the hallway with an unreadable expression on his face.

“How did you get that, George?”

The recorder falls from his hand and lands on the carpet, ripping the earbuds out of his ears. A light—was it red?—began to blink on the side.

“I’m not mad,” Dream says, and his tone is almost an exact replica of the woman’s. Patient, even, mature, as if coaxing a cat down from a tree. “I just want to know how you got the recorder, George.”

Wordlessly, George steps forward and pulls Dream into a hug. His roommate doesn’t respond, stiffly standing there as George embraces him.

Empathy has always been one of the things that defined him; it’s part of the reason he works in an emergency room now. The older can feel tears well up in his eyes, and he trembles like a leaf in the harsh wind of autumn. With an odd tentativeness, Dream reciprocates the hug. His arms surround George, and the dam holding his tears back shatters.

“You heard, didn’t you?” Dream asks quietly.

George chokes on a sob. “Why didn’t you tell me that was what happened in Detroit?”

Dream sighs. “I’d gotten over it, I think.”

“You fucking idiot.” George pulls out of the hug to look his roommate directly in the eyes. “You cannot tell me you’ve _gotten over it_ after you literally had a panic attack over the phone not even five days ago. Mumbling something about Detroit over and over again.”

“I…,” begins Dream. “I got closure. Other ways. I don’t think panic attacks are that bad in comparison.”

“That’s not closure, you nimrod!” yells George. “Did you at least see someone? A therapist? Talk to a close friend?”

The younger bends down to pick up the recording device, George’s earbuds still trailing from where they were plugged in in the headphone jack. “It’s recording.”

“Answer my question, Dream,” George says firmly. He uses this tone on patients, frantic relatives, people breaking the rules of the emergency room. Never has he used it on Dream.

Dream presses a button on the device. “No, George. I didn’t talk to anyone. Not a therapist, not a close friend—you’re my closest friend. But I’m fine. I was a kid when that shit happened. I should be fine by now.” His hand fiddles with the various switches.

George clasps his hands around Dream’s, stilling his motion. “Please, Dream. Promise me you’ll get in contact with someone by the end of this week, okay?”

Dream grimaces. “Yeah.”

“Say you promise.”

“Fine, George, I _promise_ that I’ll talk to someone.”

“Good.”

Dream presses another button, and the light stops flashing, their promise set in stone.

Just another recording in the device.

✴︎

A week after they’d moved in. It’s 3:19 AM by the time George returns from his shift in the ER, exhausted. He tosses his bag onto a chair as he makes his way to the bathroom, going over his mental checklist. Wash face, brush teeth, get into pajamas, hopefully snag a couple hours of sleep.

George passes the kitchen, pausing when he sees the lights on. There’s the squeak of a faucet and the soft splash of running water, and Dream emerges from the room with a yawn, a glass in hand.

The older chuckles when his roommate stops in his tracks upon seeing him. “Filtered?”

Dream tilts his head to the side in confusion and takes out his earbuds. “What did you say?”

“Is the water filtered?”

“Yeah,” says Dream. “Installed it a few hours ago. You just get back?”

George nods, practically swaying on his feet. His headache had gotten progressively worse over the course of the night, with doctors, patients, accidents, and paperwork all out to get him. Noticing his fatigue, Dream motions for him to sit down on one of the stools at the counter and hands him the water. George gladly accepts as Dream fetches a second glass.

“You’re up late,” he notes.

“Couldn’t sleep,” is Dream’s reply. He has one earbud in now, and George can faintly hear some noise leaking from the other. The kitchen is beautifully quiet, a marvel thing in The City That Never Sleeps. And a relief for George’s headache.

His curiosity is piqued. “What are you listening to?”

Dream shuffles over to the counter and takes a seat. The bar stool creaks as he stretches. “Melanie Martinez. _Dead to Me_.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard of it,” says George.

Dream taps on his phone a couple times, a yellowish glow illuminating his finger when the Spotify app opens. “Want to listen?” He offers the second earbud to George.

The song starts from the beginning with a slow, muffled voice, a guitar coming in soon after. Static tickles George’s eardrum.

_My condolences._

Dream is intently watching George’s face, probably looking for his reaction. George sets down his glass, the bubbles stuck to the side rising to the surface. A clearer melody sparkles into the song.

_I need to kill you._

He lets out a small laugh at the lyrics. George knew that his friend listened to a lot of different music, but he hadn’t expected to hear a soft song about murder. It’s a juxtaposition that satisfies the small craving for irony George had retained from his days as a rebellious teenager.

The corner of Dream’s mouth twitches in amusement. “What are you laughing about?”

“Nothing,” says George. “It just… wasn’t what I anticipated.”

“In a good way or a bad way?” asks Dream. He fiddles with the wire of the earbuds.

George rests his head on the counter, the cool granite doing wonders for the pain in his skull. “Definitely good.”

“Cool,” Dream says softly.

_‘Cause, baby, you’re dead to me._

The song ends with a few bars of fairy-like instrumental. George’s glass is empty, and Dream finishes his in a couple gulps. 3:26 AM, reads the blinking digital clock on the counter. He takes out the earbud, the gray album cover still glowing on Dream’s phone.

“Well, George, I’m gonna head off to bed now.” Another creak from the bar stool as Dream stands. “See ya.”

His phone is still on the counter.

George turns it off, the click echoing around the kitchen. Dream will remember to take it in the morning.

Rubbing his eyes, he puts the glasses in the sink—he’s too tired to wash them; he’ll do it tomorrow—and walks down the hall to the bathroom. The lights are too bright for George’s liking, so he washes his face as quickly as possible. Eyes adjusting, he stares at his face in the mirror. His face stares back, water dripping down his features. Were the circles under his eyes always this dark? God, he should get more sleep.

The song Dream showed him is still stuck in his head. He finishes brushing his teeth, and the toothbrush clatters as he puts it back in the cup.

On an impulse, George smiles in the mirror.

His face smiles back.

✴︎

George manages to get a good four hours of sleep before a police siren wakes him up. Typical New York City. He pushes the covers off his body and stumbles into the hallway.

Light streams through the window, casting a warm brilliance on the walls. His roommate is sitting on the floor of the living room, the puddle of sunlight surrounding him. While the whole room is sprinkled with drops of the sun, Dream is drenched in it.

“G’morning,” says George. “How did you sleep?”

“Good,” Dream replies. “You?”

It’s a blatant excuse for small talk, but George gives in. “I was going to sleep in, but I was… awoken from my slumber.”

Dream nods understandingly, his hair sticking up in all directions. “Oh, yeah, I actually didn’t sleep at all.”

George’s nursing degree kicks in, and he’s about to give Dream the you-need-to-care-for-yourself talk, but he rationalizes that Dream is twenty-one and knows what he’s doing. Somewhat. Fuck that, Dream definitely doesn’t know what he’s doing. Nonetheless, George opts for the small talk option once again. “Is anything wrong?”

The younger wears a sheepish grin. “Well, I usually go to sleep listening to sounds, but I left my phone on the counter last night, so it was hard to sleep. I should probably stop being dependent on hearing things, but it’s a habit.”

George hums in agreement and makes his way over to the kitchen, the tile cold against his socked feet. “Coffee?”

“I’ll pass. I think I’ll go completely, like, off the walls if I get any caffeine in my system now.”

“Yeah, probably.”

As he opens the fridge to rummage around for milk, George notices Dream’s phone still on the counter, a tinny sound coming out of the earbuds. He closes the fridge door and picks it up.

Had the music been playing all night?

He turns on the phone. The battery is dangerously low, and sure enough, something is playing. But instead of Spotify, it’s an unnamed file.

From late nights of watching Dream’s fingers fly over a keyboard to unlock his laptop, George knows the password by heart. Lowercase M, uppercase Y, underscore, capital C, zero, N, D, zero, L, three, N, C, thirty-five. A reference. He hadn’t understood it before.

_My condolences._

George unlocks Dream’s phone, and a video fills the screen.

The first thing he sees is the location of the file. Detroit. Seven years ago.

The second thing he sees is the video itself. Even with his experience seeing blood in the ER, George can’t block out the instant feeling of nausea that rises in his throat.

The camera shakes as its holder reaches out, knife in hand. There are bodies on the floor, dark blood pooling out of their mouths. With a flourish, the camera’s owner carves a smile across one body’s face, dragging the blade through the skin. George fights the urge to throw up at the sight of the lacerated flesh. Everything is captured by the camera, and George can see that the body is missing all of its teeth. They lie scattered on its clothing, bloody bits of pulp still dangling from them.

Even with the earbuds lying on the counter, George can hear the screams of agony—and a _very_ familiar laughing wheeze.

Clay’s laugh.

_Dream’s_ laugh.

There’s a sharp knock on the wall.

“George.” There’s a sense of déjà vu as he turns around once more to see Dream standing in the entrance of the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

Dream looks innocent. He’s the guy who puts too much sugar in his tea and wears his socks inside-out by accident. He likes cats, has weird superstitions about ghosts, and goes down stairs three at a time. He’ll get mopey if he loses to George in a video game, but he’s a good sport about it.

He always smiles in the end.

Dream is also the same guy who went by Clay, the boy who got ruthlessly tormented by others. He’s the one who didn’t seek help, but instead paid back those who hurt him tenfold.

So what does that make Dream?

And what does that make _George?_

_’Cause, baby, you’re dead to me._

George’s eyes widen. He’s never known what a deer in the headlights feels like, but now his fight-or-flight response is the only thing he can think of. He’s frozen, paralyzed in the gaze of his roommate.

“What are you doing?” says Dream, eyes on the phone in George’s hand. It doesn’t sound like a question.

George can barely hear Dream over the pounding of his heart, louder than any scream in the recordings he’d heard. “I-I didn’t—” George stutters. “Dream—Clay— _please._ What is going on?”

His roommate smiles, perfect teeth glinting in the artificial light of the kitchen. “I told you: I got closure.” Dream’s words are casual, almost as casual as they were when the conversation was solely small talk.

“That’s not fucking closure!” shrieks George. “You murdered people?”

Dream takes a knife out of a drawer and inspects it with a careful eye. “I needed to tie up all the loose ends.” He pries open George’s trembling hand and takes the phone. “You don’t understand, George. I _needed_ to. And you’re a loose end now. I thought I’d be done with everything once I moved out of Detroit, but it’s really my fault for taking the recorder with me.”

“Dream, please, there’s some way to sort this out,” George protests. He’s grasping at straws now, but he knows his fate is sealed.

“I’m hurt, George,” says Dream’s soft, pained voice, pressing the knife to George’s neck. George can hear the same agony he’d heard in Clay’s cries, and he tries to suppress the empathy surging up in him. “Why would you listen to those recordings? Did you want to be in one so badly?”

George covers his face as the phone camera points directly at him.

“Say cheese, George.”

**Author's Note:**

> yeah. uh. about that.  
> blame math class for making me think of the idea for this fic
> 
> Comments are appreciated, you may yell at me :)  
> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
